IN winter sere,
We little men o' the hill
No longer duck and peer
Up holy daffodil.
Nor suck the egg
That the cuckoo lays,
Nor the angry leg
Of the chafer wring
Till the gray-pate sing
With his stiff amaze :
No, no, no, no 1
To keep ourselves warm in row
We run — ta, la, la, lo !
A valley's end
Is steep and flat at the top,
No pathways there may wend
Across the sweet-fern crop
As dead as straw ;
At the sign-post wiy
All the winds see-saw,
And with chilly feet
We little ones meet
On the rim of sky.
We start, stay, go,
And down to the pool below
We mn — ta, la, la, lo !
